"It is Art, and no other. Whoever knows it, whoever serves it, whoever
impresses it deeply on his soul and only breathes and moves in it, no
longer has any taint of baseness; he soars high above the earth, and
knows nothing of misery and death. It is with Art the Divinity bridges
space and descends to man, to draw him up ward to brighter worlds. This
word transfigures everything, and brings fresh green shoots even from the
dry wood of souls defrauded of love and hope. Life is a thorny rose-
bush, and Art its flower. Here Mirth is melancholy--Joy is sorrowful
and Liberty is dead. Here Art withers and--like an exotic--is prevented
perishing outright only by artificial culture. But there is a land, I
know it well, for it is my home--where Art buds and blossoms and throws
its shade over all the highways. Favorite of Antonio, knight of the
Word--you must go to Italy!"

Sophonisba had spoken. He must go to Italy. The home of Titian!
Raphael! Buonarotti! where also the Master went to school.

"Oh, Word, Word!" he cried exultingly in his heart. "What other can
disclose, even on earth, such a glimpse of the joys of Paradise."

When he left Sophonisba, he felt as if he were intoxicated.

What still detained him in Madrid?

Moor's zechins were not yet exhausted, and he was sure of the assistance
of the "word" upon the sacred soil of Italy.

He unfolded his plan to Coello without delay, at first modestly, then
firmly and defiantly. But the court-artist would not let him go. He